For the Love of

I swear upon my mother’s grave
I only speak the truth:
You ask, Where is your piece of cake?
I say, There’s cake? Forsooth!
I just came in and just sat down
With just this tray of tea.
There’s camomile and peppermint
And even oolong, see?
You look at me a bit askance
But sit down anyway,
And then quite casually remark
A ghost would like her tray.